


Retirement

by terminallybored



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Badass Bobby Finstock, Blood, Customer Service Wish Fulfillment, Ex-Hunter Bobby Finstock, Gen, Hunter AU, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 09:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminallybored/pseuds/terminallybored
Summary: Hunters aren't supposed to retire. But then, by Bobby's reading of the code, hunters are starting to do a lot of things they're not supposed to. And it just so happens that a hunter's skill set and a restaurant manager's skill set have an awful lot of similarities. At least, they do when the restaurant is the truck stop on the edge of Beacon Hills, where the law of necessity makes customer service standards a lot more flexible.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89
Collections: Finstock's Fucked Up Long Weekend 2019





	Retirement

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Finstock's Fucked Up Long Weekend 2019, Day 3- Rest and Relaxation

Gerard stares across the dining room table as an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. Silverware has stopped clicking on plates. All the comfortable chatter is quiet. Silence that’s finally broken by a beep from the oven, a warning that the frozen pie is almost done.

“I don’t understand this, Bobby,” he finally says, sitting back in his chair.

“‘I quit’ isn’t really a hard concept, Gerry.” Bobby stabs a piece of squash on his plate. “You want it in writing? Need 2 weeks notice?”

“You don’t just quit being a hunter. It’s not like you’re an insurance salesman and you’re hanging up your hat here.”

The oven timer begins going off in long, repeat tones. Everyone at the table looks at each other and has a brief argument with their eyes. Chris, as the male, is the loser. As usual. He gets up and goes into the kitchen, leaving Kate and Victoria to see how this plays out.

‘You gonna tell me this is a mafia situation?” Bobby asks, raising his eyebrows. “Once you’re in you can’t get out? We both know that’s not a good look for this line of work. You don’t want lackluster people running into the woods with guns, do you?”

Gerard raises his eyebrows. “Obviously I’m obligated to answer that with a no,” he says flatly. “But since when are you lackluster? You always had a great deal of… _zest_ for your job.”

“Sure.” Bobby pulls the squash from his fork with his teeth, trying to choose his next words with a modicum of care. He’s not actually stupid enough to turn this into an argument about leadership politics. “I’m too old-school, though. I was in it for chasing away the feral omegas, keeping the kids and the freaks out running at 5 AM safe. This new thing with the swords and the bisecting... that’s not my scene.”

“Oh, that.” Gerard waves that off, like leaving half of a corpse hanging from a tree isn’t a big deal. “I can assure you, that’s a tradition that goes back quite a way. It just feels like we’re at a point where we need to get back to our roots. Send messages.”

“Drawing and quartering is a tradition too. Thumb screws. Iron maidens. I don’t have the stomach for any of it.”

“Really.” It’s not a question and Gerard’s eyes are fixed on him like they’re trying to bore holes right through. “I’m surprised. You’ve always had a fine stomach.”

Bobby stares right back. “Guess I’ve found my limit.”

The silence turns harder. Bobby and Gerard stare each other down. Bobby can hear someone breathing faster behind him. Probably Kate, anticipating a fight if her daddy sics her on him. Leadership politics indeed.

Chris clears his throat from the kitchen doorway. “Vic?” he prompts, a subtle reminder to the whole room who’s supposed to be in charge here.

Victoria looks around the table, and Bobby can almost see the calculations running in her head. Picking out who has which weapons, likelihood that her kid wakes up before any bodies could be cleared away, backlash from other hunter families no matter which way it goes.

“Oh, Bobby. There’s no need to be dramatic,” she says with a gracious smile. “We’ll miss you. And if retirement doesn’t sit well with you, you can always come back, you know. Now, let’s all have dessert.”

Chris is the only one Bobby says goodbye to after the most uncomfortable slice of apple pie in the world (burnt too). He shakes his hand and clasps his forearm.

“I don’t know how you’re gonna survive this,” he says honestly. “You’re too old school. Like me.” And this... regime... is new. And dangerous.

“Every organization needs a steady Eddie,” Chris says, giving Bobby’s hand a reassuring squeeze before letting it go. “So what are you going to do now?”

Bobby doesn’t push it. Chris is an Argent by blood, not a hunter who joined under the family name. He’s got a marriage and a kid to lose if he goes around toeing lines. “Well, I’m retired, right? Probably pick up a part-time job or something, so I don’t go crazy. Something relaxing.”

* * *

Hunter retirement, for Bobby Finstock, comes in the form of a denim polo shirt and a bright red pin-on badge that reads Bobby- Manager. It’s a long parking lot that goes on and on, flat and disconcerting with the rise of the northern mountain ranges just ahead. The actual building of the North by Nightfall Truck Stop is maybe 10% of the land area. Maybe closer to 8%. Most of the land is eaten by the giant spaces left at the four gas pumps with the single strip of overhead covered, and the long, slanted white lines where the 18-wheelers can park.

The burger joint inside is even smaller. The worn booths shares space with large industrial off-white shelves off to one side, stocked with a modest offering of junk food, toiletries, and the most basic of mechanical repair items. The shelves should probably be bolted down to something, but on Bobby’s walk-through when he got hired, they just said that if someone got crushed under one it was probably Darwinism. And honestly? That’s fair.

Six months into retirement, Bobby is more relaxed than he has been in years. Also, he may use those shelves to speed up the Darwinism process.

“I want to see a MANAGER!!!”

Bobby sighs as his sixth attempt at creating the schedule for next week will apparently be yet another failure. He glances down at his grease-spattered shirt where the name tag is pinned. Yep, he’s still the manager. He abandons his squeaky office chair and heads out of the tiny office at the back of the kitchen. If he didn’t already know this cramped kitchen better than his own apartment, the shrieky woman at the front would have been an excellent guide.

The cashier, Emily, is backed as far away from her register as she can get while still keeping her hands on the open drawer (company policy, and Bobby makes a mental note to commend her for it). She’s clutching a pair of bills in her hand, so hard that her knuckles are white.

“I- I can refund you for the hamburger,” she stammers. “Ma’am,” she adds, because Emily is about as polite as they come.

The woman is dressed in a dark gray sweatsuit and a t-shirt that’s been bedazzled to hell with something probably way cheerier than she deserves to be wearing. Her makeup is smudging off, and her hair looks like the wind has had its way with it. Like most people they see, especially the non-truckers, long travel does not agree with her. And Bobby is sensitive to that, right up until they turn their bad moods on his crew.

“I don’t want my money back! Where else am I supposed to get lunch on this part of the interstate?? Do you not even realize where you’re located??” She jabs a finger at the half-open foil package on the counter top. “I want to know why you people can’t even make your godawful food correctly!”

“What seems to be the problem?” Bobby asks, his voice startling Emily and making her clutch the sides of her drawer. And then wilt a little in relief at having someone else there with her.

“Finally!” The woman yanks the wrapping aside and eagerly flips over the top bun of her burger. “I want to know wh-”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Bobby snaps. He turns his head to look at Emily. “What’s the problem?”

“She doesn’t like how her food was made but she won’t let me give her a refund.” There’s a quiver under Emily’s voice that says he’s definitely going to end up with a crying cashier after this. Maybe he can get Danny to provide the emotional stability.

“Excuse me, but _I_ am the customer,” the woman hisses.

“You’re the one yelling at a 16-year-old girl,” he says. “So honestly, you’re not my first concern. But in the interest of getting you out of my restaurant, tell me what you want.”

The woman opens and closes her mouth a few times, and Bobby pictures a dying carp with the severe blond bob and smeared eyeliner. It’s a dance he sees all the time, this tightrope walk between wanting to be offended, but also really wanting to complain about her food. She picks complaining.

“Do you see how dry this is??” she asks, shoving the bun forward, making Emily flinch away. There’s the standard six dots of mustard on it. A pickle slice slides off and lands on the counter.

“I see a receipt that says ‘No Ketchup,’” Bobby says, nodding at the foil wrapper with the order taped to it.

“Yes. I hate ketchup,” the woman agrees, enunciating each word like she’s talking to a child (who would then grow up to hate her). “If someone removes a condiment, you give them more of the other one. Obviously.”

Bobby stares at her. Hello, elevated blood pressure. Been a while. “Did you order extra mustard?”

“Anyone with half a brain knows no one can eat a hamburger that’s this dry!”

“I’m sorry, but our mind-reading cashier quit last week.” The woman snaps her mouth shut. “You’ll have to actually order your food the way you want it. Now do you want your extra mustard, or do you want your money back?”

The edges of her jaw clench and she slaps her bun back down on her hamburger. “I’m going to contact your general manager!” She still snatches her hamburger up, smart enough to remember that her food options end here for a good long while, and storms out of the restaurant. Emily immediately begins crying, hands shaking and still clutching the woman’s money.

“Another happy customer, I see,” Braeden says, coming into the restaurant just as the woman storms out past her.

“She left just in time. I was about to let Greenberg deal with her,” Bobby says, awkwardly patting Emily’s back. “Danny! Danny, come... finish this transaction,” he calls. “I gotta talk to Braeden. Company policy regarding visiting staff.”

Danny comes out from where he was rotating the stock in the back, giving Bobby a look like he knows he’s full of shit. But he still puts an arm around Emily and starts making the appropriate sympathetic noises and helping her sort her drawer out, letting Bobby escape from behind the counter.

“So. To what do I owe the pleasure, Madam Staff Trainer?” God he hopes she’s not here with another new product announcement. That month where they had to try and make salad shakers in a kitchen that needs to be bigger just to handle the burgers was a nightmare. So much lettuce slime. So many dressing packet bombs.

“Brought you a new staff member.” She holds her arm out and a teenager steps around from behind her. He’s slight enough that Bobby would bet good money that Danny could bench press the guy if he tried. His dark curly hair sticks to his forehead slightly, hopefully in response to his encounter with a Soccer Mom in the wild. Fear of those things is healthy.

“Nice to meet you, Alec,” Bobby says. The kid startled and stares at him a moment until Bobby taps his own name tag. The kid glances down, remembering that he has his name pinned on his shirt now. “I’m Bobby.”

“Nice to meet you.” Alec puts his shoulders back and holds out his hand. When Bobby shakes his hand, there’s pretty much no confidence in the grip. But there is a hell of a grip.

“Alright, let’s get you to work learning how to sort the dish rack. Come on.”

“Finstock.”

Eighth attempt at the schedule halted. But possibly not entirely failed if he can get Jackson to fuck off in short order.

“Whittemore,” Bobby says, not looking up. “This better be important.”

“It’s about the new kid.”

“What about him? He manage to fuck up already?” Jesus, the only tool he’s given the kid so far is a broom, how did he manage that?

“Not that. It’s that he’s... y’know.”

Bobby just blinks at him. “…What? An evil twin? Filing a work comp claim after 90 minutes?”

Jackson sighs and makes his eyes flash blue. Then raises his eyebrows in a silent ‘Well?’

Oh. That.

Bobby goes back to his schedule. “I know that. Just keep an eye on him, and don’t put him on parking lot duty.”

* * *

Bobby is already agitated. He’s been watching a 30-something leer at two teenage girls picking out snacks from the shelves for a good 10 minutes. The clock shows 12:04 and Alec still hasn’t shown up for his shift. 34 minutes late, from a kid who, after a full month, doesn’t have a single attendance mark next to his name. And he’s checked all his monitoring systems. There are no accidents clogging the roads. No construction. There hasn’t been a single dot under his text to Alec to indicate he’s about to reply.

Bobby’s fingers… itch.

“Finstock.” Danny nudges him. “The vein in your forehead is doing that thing.”

“God I hope he gets up and tries to talk to them.” Bobby taps his fingers on his biceps. “One step and I’m gonna sic Greenberg on him.”

“Just let me call the cops if he tries anything,” Danny sighs. “I don’t wanna have to stay until close if you have to go down to the station again.”

“You might have to anyway if Alec doesn’t show up. Try texting him.”

Danny pulls out his phone and slaps Bobby’s hand away as he reaches under the counter. “Just call the cops.”

The guy catches Bobby looking at him. He looks back at the girls. Back at Bobby. He flashes him a grin and a thumbs up like they’re in agreement on something.

Danny slaps his hand away from the counter again. Bobby makes a frustrated grunt in his throat and shoves the half-door out into the dining room open and goes directly to the guy’s table. Slaps his palms onto the cheap plastic table top and leans over them until he’s looking the guy square in the eye. The guy immediately cranes back in his seat. He reeks of too much hair product from the blond middle-management shell on top of his head.

“See something you like?”

“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” he immediately protests.

“Is it comfortable, having me staring at you like I’m planning where I could bury your body?” Bobby leans in closer. “Is this a good experience for you? Part of your road trip you’ll laugh about later?”

“I’m just looking! Did you…” He wilts a little under Bobby’s withering gaze, sliding down in the booth seat slightly. The plastic squeaks pitifully. “I mean, did you see how short their shorts are? Can you blame me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a cop or something?” he asks, trying to scoot further away.

“I’m the manager. And you’re in the last place to get gas between here and the next state. How long do you think it would take a cop to get here and save you?” Bobby hisses. The guy just squirms again. “I’ve had to time it before, if you really want to know.”

“Mr. Finstock?”

Bobby looks up at Alec, standing in the doorway. His uniform is rumpled, with sweat stains in the arms, and his hair has looked better. But he’s unharmed.

“I got… I had to take a detour and-”

Bobby points at the guy slumped in his seat. “You. When those girls leave, my guy at the register is gonna set a timer. You better not move from this spot for 15 minutes after they leave this building. And after that, you don’t hit my rest stop anymore. Understand?”

He doesn’t wait to hear whatever protests come next. He’s busy ushering Alec behind the counter. “Danny. 15 on the creep,” he calls.

“Am I in trouble?” Alec asks as Danny calls back an affirmative. “I mean, it was only one time being late. Can I just get a warning or…?”

“Tell Jackson to get you an apron. You’re learning the grill today.”

Alec looks up at the idea of being behind the counter all day, rather than milling around the lobby. “…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome! I’ll just clock in and-”

“I clocked you in at the start of your shift. Tell Jackson if he’s such a dick that you quit, I’ll key his car.”

After the register has been counted down and the kitchen shut down, Bobby is locking up the restaurant portion of the building and making sure the overnight guy is situated in the little cage where he can ring up gas transactions and sell cigarettes through the window out to the parking lot. He watches as Alec finishes letting the air out of his own bike tire and twists the nozzle cap back on.

“Mr. Finstock!” He comes dragging his bike across the parking lot right on cue as Bobby finishes locking up the building for the night. The floodlights on the roof cast hard shadows across the pavement in the elongated shapes of Alec and his bike. “My bike tire got messed up. Could uh… could I get a ride home? I’ve got gas money and-”

“I don’t take gas money from kids.” Bobby pulls out his keys. “Let’s go.”

A lifetime of expertise at fitting IKEA boxes into a car not meant to hold them pays off yet again when Bobby manages to fit Alec’s bike into the trunk with only 7 minutes and a bungee cord.

“Thanks, Mr. Finstock.” Alec glances behind them as the truck stop turns into a distant pool of fluorescent lights surrounded by the darkness. The way from the edge of the open road back into Beacon Hills is long, winding, and unlit for a good portion of it.

“Sure, kid.” Bobby glances into his rearview mirror. No other cars. The road is as empty as it usually is at this hour. “Make sure you’re careful about who you take rides from.”

“Oh. I’ll… have my bike fixed by tomorrow. I’ve got a pump at home.”

“I didn’t say your bike had to be broken.”

Alec looks forward. “Oh. Well… some friends told me you were okay to catch a ride with, if I had to.”

Good to know his reputation has preceded him. “They told you right,” he agrees. “So if that bike pump happens to be broken, you call me.”

Alec nods slowly. “…Thanks,” he says, and eagerly changes the subject like any self-respecting teenager being asked to consider safety options. “So… why do they call that place North by Nightfall?”

Bobby shrugs. “Because it’s closed at night. You better be on your way by nightfall. And I guess whoever named it assumed no one there was gonna actually be heading back into the town.” Most sane people wouldn’t.

“Yeah, aren’t most truck stops 24 hours?”

Bobby makes a so-so motion with his hand. “You can get gas 24 hours. It’s just a restaurant that’s not staffed.”

“But can’t truckers also stay there overnight if they wanted?” Alec asks.

“They’re allowed.” No one ever does. Bobby has never seen a single truck park in the lot at sundown. They fill the tank and move on.

There’s a long moment of silence. “Jackson said the name came first, and then people started doing what it said,” Alec finally says. “Like, a warning. Get going before it’s dark. And don't go back into the town.”

Not a bad rule for strangers blindly passing through an area with these kinds of currents running under it. Though it’s not the werewolves that are the dangerous ones. Not anymore.

He finally shrugs when Alec seems to be waiting for an answer. “Chicken or egg situation, I guess. Jackson’s is a better story for sleepovers.”

* * *

Alec’s bike pump is, indeed, mysteriously broken the next morning. As they ride into work, Bobby catches two cars in his rearview mirror at intervals that don’t make logistical sense. Boxy cars. Lots of trunk space. Lots of footwell space.

He puts Alec in the kitchen again.

They wait until 7, when the sun is beginning to set and the restaurant has mostly emptied out. The kids are gathered around the counter in the kitchen, eating the overflow from the last grill firing before they went down to a single grill for the last part of the day. Bobby is trying to reset their spare register, which has the decimal key stuck ‘somehow.’ Which means Jackson probably got irritated with a customer and smashed the button too hard. Again.

3 of them come in. Their heavy boots thump on the clean linoleum, and their canvas jackets hang with ominous weight.

“You uh… wanna clear this place out?” The one in the middle is the leader. Easy to tell because he’s got the muscle. He’s been learning to swing the swords. There’s scars on his hands, in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. One of his lackies isn’t even tall enough to manage a sword. And has his hair in a ponytail. Against regulation, meaning a third-party loan-in. Argent men don’t wear their hair long, not for decades now.

Bobby barely looks up. “We’re not closed yet.”

“Close enough.” Leader saunters up to the counter. “I really think you wanna close up. We need to talk.”

“Yeah?” He shuts the top of the register back over the guts. “Don’t want anyone coming in to see your little thug act? Is Gerry actually gonna maintain appearances now?”

“We just wanna talk,” he repeats. “You should get the kids out of here.”

“Except that new one,” the loan-in says. “We need to talk to him too.”

Bobby slaps the counter and laughs heartily. It’s honestly funny and also at the same time terrifying. But mostly it just pisses him off.

“3 of you sons of bitches for a teenage kid? Really?”

Leader nods to the lackie with a low, square build. He goes to the front door and flips the lock on, then slides a meaty palm down over the row of light switches. The dining area turns gray and dusky, lit only by the setting sun coming in through the windows. From the outside, the rest stop looks pretty closed.

“We gave you your shot to get the kids out,” Leader sighs. “Now we’ll have to make sure they all know how to keep their mouths shut after we find out why your new guy is here without an Alpha.”

“You know how Gerard feels about omegas,” Loan-In sneers.

“And what does Vic think?” Bobby asks. “I mean, I’m assuming your orders came from her, right?”

“Victoria supports Gerard’s direction for Beacon Hills. No omegas,” Leader says. He cranes to see behind the counter. “That the Whittemore boy back there too?”

“Come back here and find out,” Jackson snarls.

“Got yourself a little collection of omegas, have you?” Square Build snorts.

Bobby leans over the counter. “3 big bad hunters coming for a 16-year-old. See, that’s a little overkill. Little suspicious. So I can’t help but wonder if Gerard might know what happened to the rest of his pack.”

Leader sneers. “Why would anyone care what happened to a wolf pack?”

“Call it experience.”

Leader leans over the counter until his face is inches away from Bobby’s. “We’d like to talk to the werewolf. It’s not a request.”

Bobby rears his head back and slams it into Leader’s. There’s a hard, wet cracking sound as his forehead crushes in the cartilage of the man’s nose and makes him flail backwards.

“F-fucking hell!” he sputters, coughing on the blood running down face.

“You think that was bad? Try taking one step behind my counter and you’re gonna meet Greenberg.”

Loan-In looks between his bloodied boss, still cradling his nose, and the bunch of teenagers huddled around Alec in the back of the kitchen. “…Which one is Greenberg?”

At last. At long goddamn last. Bobby’s blood pressure hasn’t felt this goddamn good in weeks. He reaches under the table and closes his hand around cold metal, hefting Greenberg out. The crowbar is long and heavy, rust tinging the edges.

“He’s the guy who helps unload the supply trucks.”

Loan-In and Square Build reach into their jackets. Bobby brings Greenberg up in a tight swing and tucks the hooked point under Leader’s jaw.

“Feel that?” He bounces the weight of the bar in his hand, letting the thin, filed edges press into the hunter’s skin. “One wrong move and you’ll be tasting this from under your tongue. Tell your boys.”

“Don’t… just keep your fucking hands out,” Leader sputters, trying to crane back. Bobby digs the hook in and hauls him back closer until he’s forced onto his tiptoes to lean over the counter.

“Now. Let’s the three of us chat,” he says. “And then you three can call and chat with Gerry while your boss is getting his tetanus shots after this.”

Blood drips onto the counter from under Leader’s jaw.

“Listening!” he cries. “Jesus, ease up, man!”

“If I so much as hear that you used the same sidewalk as a member of my crew, you’re gonna meet everyone who helps me unload the trucks around here.”

“Hey, we just came to do our job!” Leader holds his hands out to the sides, smart enough to keep them well away from his jacket and any weapons within. His fingers clench tightly into fists as sweat beads on his forehead. “Don’t start a war here, man!”

“If Gerry is killing packs and hunting down any survivors, you’re already in a war.” Bobby yanks the crowbar, making Leader yelp as he follows the pull over the counter, splayed on his chest. Blood drips more freely on the metal. “And you can fucking tell him I said that. And if you find your balls again, tell Vic I said it too.”

The second Bobby releases his pressure on the crowbar, Leader stumbles backwards, clutching the underside of his jaw.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, Finstock!” He pulls back his hand to check for blood, then clasps it back over the wound when he sees his palm slick and red. “You’re crazy and Gerard is gonna fuckin’ kill you!”

“If Gerry didn’t tell you I was crazy when he sent you, that means you’re expendable.” Bobby slams the crowbar onto the counter, making the hunters flinch at the loud metallic clang. “Get out of my restaurant before I come around the other side of this counter!”

The hunters scrabble for the door, forgetting that Square Build locked them in. They yank the handle harder, making the door rattle in its frame.

“Hey!” Bobby hits the counter again. “You break my door and you’re getting a bill!”

Loan-In claws at the lock until he manages to get it open. The three of them spill out into the twilight evening, tripping over each other on the sidewalk and running off for the car parking lot.

“We could have taken them,” Jackson sighs, crossing his arms as he comes to stand beside him. “They’re gonna be back.”

“Food safety standards, Jackson. You know how unsanitary a dead body is?” Finstock taps the bloody counter with the tip of his crowbar. “Now get this thing sterilized so we can go home. We gotta serve food off it tomorrow.”

Bobby leaves the boys to bicker among themselves over who has to clean up the blood. They ultimately decide to make Alec do it since he needs to learn to clean up blood anyway. Bobby heads into the office to finish the schedule for next week and maybe see about giving Jackson next Saturday off in exchange for giving Alec a ride in for a while.

Most hunters will retire in a pine box, and other hunters will gather and talk about how that’s the best way to go, really. Noble. For the cause. Bobby figures if his retirement includes raising a little hell and babysitting a few werewolves instead, then he’s really got this relaxation thing figured out.


End file.
